


fuck it i love you

by lavish (valerian)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Arguments, Creampie, Drama & Romance, F/M, Minor Spoilers, Pining, Post-Time Skip, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, a little bit of smut, drama did i mention drama, post-storyline of the game, stupid sexy idiots, who don't realize they're perfect for each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 10:00:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20526143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valerian/pseuds/lavish
Summary: The song is not about him.The song she writes, has been writing, the one she scrawls into a notebook that she slips underneath her pillow every night—That song?No.It’s not about him.





	fuck it i love you

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Felix and Dorothea's ending in the Crimson Flower route, where “no matter how far Felix traveled, he always found himself drawn back to that opera house.” To her.

_I like to light up the stage with a song_

_Do shit to keep me turned on_

_But one day I woke up like_

_Maybe I'll do it differently_

* * *

The song is not about him. 

The song she writes, has been writing, the one she scrawls into a notebook that she slips underneath her pillow every night—

That song? 

No.

It’s not about him. 

And it’s barely a song anyway. 

It’s more a poem. One that goes, oh, my lover, the one whom I love

Physically, only ever

Physically 

Because you never stick around. You do not stay. When we are done, when night is drowned by the day, bright sun…

You leave. 

You leave. 

And it’s been like this for two years now. _Two years._

A girl—nay, a _woman_—can only wait so long for one man. One man who comes, who comes, who comes, and then _goes_ because he is a sellsword. A mercenary. Someone whose livelihood is dependent solely on the next job, then the one after that. 

Dorothea sighs. She tucks the loose leaf pages of her song ideas into her notebook, now overflowing with lyrics on their relationship. “Relationship.” Does the word even apply? 

They haven’t written to each other in three months now; at least he hasn’t written to her. She’s written him five whole letters, and that makes her pathetic, doesn’t it? Never mind that he’s probably not getting them (as he has no permanent address). Never mind that this is just a fling, a curiosity between two former classmates and now war heroes—

She is pathetic to pine after someone who once hated her and who now only tolerates her company for as long as it takes to climax. And though they dine together too sometimes, he is always careful with his words and reticent with his promises. Because he cannot keep them. 

Because he has to leave. Every. Damn. Time. 

Even though she doesn’t want him to leave. Oh, how she wishes she could tell him to stay, to beg him to stay. But that is not the nature of their affair. She is comfort, not a ball and chain. Never an obligation.

And so Dorothea does her best to forget about him—and many days she can. She is vaulted back into glory as diva of Mittelfrank. She is proposed to daily, sometimes several times a day, and her suitors are not nobodies. 

She dates them even, allows herself to be treated to lavish meals and to expensive, expensive gifts. Diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, and rubies. The men never ask for the jewels back, even when it’s all over. 

But her heart is empty, and she has long given up on the idea of finding her North Star, the resting place for her love. The war had taught her not to hope for too much. That everything is fleeting. That you can wish the absolute best for someone, but you cannot control their destiny. 

Sometimes she thinks back on watching her former classmates die…and she is empty. 

And even when she is singing on stage, and even when she is checking in on the orphanage she had founded with the money the Empire had distributed to its soldiers after the war…she is empty. 

Resigned to the fact that she is ridiculous to have even started this whole thing with him. With Felix. Felix Hugo Fraldarius. The words are bitter to speak aloud. To sing, her voice inflecting on each syllable. 

To write, her fingers refusing to acknowledge that he occupies any space in her life at all. Because he is not here with her. 

It had been a mistake to have invited him backstage that first night. To have placed her hand on his arm. To have looked up into his eyes and smiled her most radiant smile. The one that had fooled many men before. 

He had reciprocated, though, with a hunger she had not expected. Hands on her waist, on her butt, gripping her thighs; hands tangling tight in her hair, pulling in such a delicious way. 

They had fucked with abandon that first night. They had fucked once, and then twice, and then three times. 

And then they had had a little breakfast in her room of fresh fruits and grains soaked in milk. She had smiled at him, thoroughly content. He had chewed quietly on his food.

And so that was how it began. And now Dorothea wonders when they will end, if they have already. She cannot tell. 

And she will not be able to tell for another three months. Another three whole months. 

On the morning of her twenty-seventh birthday. She has a performance later that day, as the lead in _Vincere. _She speaks softly to her maids who brush her hair, who pour her bath, so as not to strain her voice. 

They bring her breakfast and a calling card. A crisp white card of substantial thickness. On it a single word, 

“_Fraldarius_.” 

She turns the card over once. Twice. And then she crushes it in her hand. It takes a bit of strength, a bit of effort; she tosses the crumpled card into the fire. 

She asks her maids to dress her in the stiffest, most conservative gown she owns. One that is appropriate only for the winter (even though it is technically still fall) — high necked and tightly laced in the back. Lined with fur and heavy. 

Then she spends the rest of the morning running through her vocal relaxation drills. She does her exercises in front of the enormous windows facing the street. She waits without waiting. She tries to distract herself from the end. 

Because she has resolved to end it, once and for all. It is time. 

Her head, her heart…she can’t take any more of it. 

There are only thorns left on this rose.

And she should move on. Really. It is time. 

Who is this girl—nay, _woman_—that she has become? Who is this sad little woman who pines after something she can’t have? Will never have? 

It is time. 

He calls two hours after noon. 

She waits for him in her parlor. _Her parlor._ She had worked her ass off for this, this two story property in a pretty part of the capital. She has worked so hard these last few years. She knows she is worthy and deserving of good things…and good things only. 

And those front doors he walks through; they are grand. As grand as her life ought to be. Grand. Vivacious. 

She grits her teeth and sets her jaw as he walks into the room, an absolute force of nature. Lean, his arms muscled, his hair just a little bit windswept. And those eyes—a shocking shade of gold, flecked with amber—framed by dark eyelashes that curl ever so slightly at the ends. 

She steels herself, looking upon him. 

Felix stares back at her. 

A long, tense silence stifles the room. 

“Aren’t you going to say hello?” he asks, cutting the silence gruffly. His gaze rakes over her body. 

Dorothea does her best not to blush. “I _would_ welcome you warmly, but…I don’t want to.” 

“Why not?” he asks, gaze snapping back to hers. 

“Because I don’t want to see you.” The words fall from her lips with such ease, with such coldness. 

He frowns. “Why not?” 

“Because it’s time to end this, Felix.” She says his name sharply. “Please. I can’t do this any more. It’s not healthy.” 

His back, his shoulders stiffen. He narrows his eyes. “Says who?”

“Says _me_.” She narrows her own eyes. Her hands ball into fists. “_I_ say what’s good for me—_I_ make that call. And I’ve judged that you are no longer good for me. You and me. _This._”

“Why?” His eyes flash, and it is intense. “Because of what?”

“Did you ever get my letters?” she asks. “Did it ever occur to you to reply?”

“So you’re mad because I haven’t written you in a few months?” 

“Are you hearing yourself right now?” She must resist the urge to stamp her foot. “‘A few months’? More like _half a year, _Felix. I haven’t heard from you in _half a year, _and now you waltz in here like you own the place—” 

“I never claimed to be perfect—” 

“And now you _waltz _in here expecting me to be _raring to go. Raring _to_ fuck—”_

“You’re not?”

“Of _course not!”_ She can feel herself start to shake, to tremble. _Get a hold of yourself. Get a hold of yourself, Dorothea._

He starts toward her, taking one step, two steps, three in her direction. Predator hunting prey.

She steps back toward the wall. One step, two steps, three, four, five, until she hits a goddess damned obstacle—a loveseat (un)strategically placed. 

He uses this to his advantage; he steps quickly in front of her, pressing his chest firmly against hers. He places his hands on her hips. Her breathing quickens. 

“Stop,” she says. “What are you doing?”

His gaze is feral when he meets her eyes. “You want me,” he growls. “You can’t hide it. Not even in this ridiculous dress.” He runs a hand over her ass, down her thigh. 

She squirms, alarmed at how easy he had caught her off guard. “Felix, I swear to the goddess, I am _serious.”_

“Because I wounded your pride by being busy?” He scoffs and grinds the sizable bulge in his pants against the front of her dress, oh goddess, oh goddess above. “I got your letters. I read all of them,” he murmurs. “But I’ve been undercover, so I haven’t had the chance to respond.” 

“Which is an _asshole_ move!” She’s starting to breathe way too hard for her liking, and his hands are starting to squeeze her bottom way too hard for her liking. 

“How do you unlace this goddess damned thing?” He starts to toy with the ties binding the back of her dress. 

She squirms against him again—partially to escape his grasp, mostly to relieve the sweet tension that’s built in her pussy. Oh goddess, she is failing the only difficult thing she’s had to do in _ages, _since the war. And oh is she failing _hard_ and _fast_.

He tugs at the knotted ribbons holding her dress together. “This bodice is completely ridiculous,” he whines. 

“I wore it on purpose,” she says, running her own hands down his taut back. It is a luxurious feeling, one she had missed a lot. “I wore this dress so we couldn’t do this.” 

“I still don’t understand.” He noses at her neck. “You’re breaking up with me because I didn’t reply to your letters.”

She closes her eyes and turns her head to give him easier access to her neck. “No. _No_—I’m breaking up with you because you didn’t—have _never_ deemed me important in your life.” 

“Says who?” he breathes against her skin. 

“Says me.” She stills her hands and forces her eyes open. “Seriously, Felix. We should stop.”

He kisses and licks a wet trail up her neck to her ear. “No.”

She shudders. “Seriously.” She grips his wrists. “Stop.”

He stills against her. Then pulls back to look at her, his golden gaze indiscernible. 

She rebuttons the buttons he had undone at the front of her dress. She doesn’t look him in the eye when she says, “Honestly, I’ve been feeling this for a while now. For the whole time we’ve been doing this really.” 

She ducks her head and slips out of his grasp. She walks to the window overlooking the balcony and stares resolutely out at the street. 

“What we have…it isn’t love, Felix. Which is what I really, truly want.” A lump starts to form in her throat. “Which is why we should stop.”

Silence. 

She forges on. “I deserve love, don’t you think? A full love? Something…something wholesome? And constant?” She clenches her hands into fists again. “It sounds stupid and naive, but it’s something I’ve wanted my whole goddess damned life, and I just think that what we’re doing, what we have, is holding me back.”

“Do you really think that?” His voice is low and hoarse from behind her.

“Yes, I really think that. That you’re holding me back.”

“Then why don’t you come say that to my face?” he asks, voice sharp and suddenly loud.

She gulps. Then turns toward him, looks him in the eyes; she is struck by the expression on his face.

He is furious, his eyebrows drawn, his jaw clenched. “Go on then.”

She raises her chin, defiant. “Felix,” she says, in as clear a voice she can muster, “You are holding me back.”

“And remind me again why?” he growls.

“Because—because I want love in my life. And what we have—”

“Isn’t love?”

“No, it’s not,” she replies. “It’s two people fucking.” 

“Funny.” He turns his shoulders away from her. He starts to pace the room, like a circus animal pacing a cage that is far too small. “Funny how you haven’t yet bothered to ask _my_ opinion on the matter, what with this being a whole _two person_ deal.”

“Oh, come _on, _Felix,” she groans. “We _both know_ this is just us screwing around. You’ve never had feelings for me.” 

“And did _I _ever say that?” 

“No. But you’ve _shown it_. You’ve demonstrated it.” She can feel anger well up inside her. “You showed it in all the times you’ve left me in my bed without saying goodbye, in all the times you’ve ignored the letters I’ve written to you for months and _months_ at a time—”

“Oh, we’re still going on about the letters, now are we—”

“Yes, we’re fucking going on about the letters!” she shouts. “Because if you cared an _ounce_ for me, you’d at least give me the courtesy of letting me know you’re _alive!”_

“I already told you—I was undercover. Night and day, surrounded by other people. People who have every right to be suspicious of me. They could be reading all my correspondences for all I know! I couldn’t risk it.” He throws a hand up. “And you know what? I’m _still on the fucking mission_, Dorothea.” 

“Which means, _of course_, that as soon as we’re done screwing, you’ll be off again, won’t you? Gone for another six goddess damned months with not a peep—”

“Well what do you want from me? To blow my cover? To identify myself among my enemies? Do you know how hard it was for me to slip away from my assignment so I could see you?” His eyes shine; wild.

Her brows draw together. Her heart starts to race. “You slipped away? What do you mean you slipped away?”

“What do you _think that means?_ I’m supposed to be in fucking Nuvelle right now, but I—but I—but I—” He swallows. He turns his back to her, his shoulders stiff. 

A second of silence..then two...then three…

“But?” she demands. “But _what_, Felix?” 

“But I wanted to _see you_, okay?!” he snaps, turning to face her again, his jaw set. “But you clearly don’t want to see me. So.” He sighs and shoves his hands into his pocket. Pink, the color _pink, _creeps up his neck and tinges his cheeks. 

He is blushing. 

Felix Hugo Fraldarius _blushing. _

And Dorothea can start to feel her heart _hurt..._

“Felix,” she says, “I hadn’t realized that you actually—that you actually _liked_ seeing me—”

He scoffs, a sound of total incredulity. “Why would we have kept seeing each other all these years if I _didn’t like seeing you?”_

“I don’t know!” she shouts, putting her hands up. “Felix, I have _no idea_ what you’re thinking most of the time. Unless you actively _tell_ me—”

“I thought I was making myself _very clear_ with the way we fucked—”

“You shoving your dick inside me _is not_ words, real _actual words—”_

“Why should I have to explain myself?” He stalks toward her, predator hunting prey, but this time she stands her ground. “That I _come to see you _should be validation enough—”

“But it _hasn’t _been. It really _isn’t enough.”_ She can feel tears prickle at the corner of her eyes, involuntary tears of frustration, and she hates them, brushing the wetness away with the back of her hand. “I need your _words, _Felix. I need to _hear_ you say that I’m important to you, that you actually _like_ spending time with me—”

“Then what should I say?” he asks, reaching out to grab her shoulders, his grip not gentle. He leans in close to her face. “Tell me what the fuck you want to hear.” 

“Am I important to you?” she asks. “Do you actually like spending time with me?”

“Yes and yes,” he says. He slides his hands down her arms. He presses his forehead to hers. “What else do you want to hear?”

She swallows. “Well, I mean, none of your answers would be organic if it’s obvious what the answers are—”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

She pulls back to glare at him. “I’m not about to _tell_ you what to say to me.”

“Well then don’t expect so much! You _know_ I’m bad at words and talking and all that crap.”

“Well maybe you should work on your conversational skills instead of whining about them all the time!” She grabs at the leather belt at his waist and tugs roughly, pulling him against her. 

“Well maybe _you_ should work on not being so demanding.” He shakes his head and sets his hands on her hips. Grabs two handfuls of her ass. 

"I'm not being demanding," she says. "I just want the truth." 

“Fine," he huffs. "This is going to sound cheesy, but...I _did_ think about you a lot these last few months.” He blushes again. "I guess you could say I...I missed you or whatever."

His gentle expression makes her laugh; her heart begins to swell with something like happiness. It is utterly insane how three little words could make her feel so good. _I missed you. _

(He had missed her, just as she had missed him.)

“How are you blushing with both your hands on my ass?” she asks. “And this cock—” She grinds herself against his dick, hard and bulging against his trousers. “This little gentleman is not very shy, now is he—”

“First of all, shut _up_.” He nuzzles the side of her neck. “And secondly, who are you calling ‘little’?” he breathes onto her neck.

“Oh, I don’t know...I haven’t seen you in _six whole months, _darling.” She runs a hand over his firm butt. “People change. People get more demanding.”

He rubs his erection against her. “_I_ haven’t.”

“I’d say you’re being pretty demanding yourself right now.” She starts to undo his belt, to shove his pants down, his underwear off. 

Meanwhile, he struggles with the lacing at the back of her dress. “I hate this fucking dress. You need to burn it as soon as I get you out of it.” 

“It’s not my best dress,” she admits. “But it has its uses, particularly when it’s cold—_Felix,_ what are you doing?!”

A ripping sound. The feeling of air hitting her bare back. 

“You just _ripped my dress!”_ she shouts. 

“You literally just said it’s not your favorite.” He shrugs, and as he tugs her bodice down, her sleeves off her shoulders, revealing her breasts, an all too wicked grin spreads across his face.

She scowls. “It was still an expensive dress, jackass. And now it’s all ruined.”

He bends over to lick and nip at her left nipple. “I’ll buy you five new dresses. Six—in this one’s place.”

She moans breathily. “Seven, or eight...would be more appropriate, I think.”

“What would be—most appropriate,” he says in between his suckling her nipples, “would be for you to step out of this dress right now so I can fuck you.” 

And so she does just that. 

And they fuck ravenously, they fuck with abandon. 

On her parlor floor, they fuck with all the vim and vigor of two teenagers falling in love and discovering each other’s bodies for the first time. She cums with her legs thrown over his shoulders, his cock penetrating her pussy deep, deeper, deepest, the connection between them absolutely delicious. _Yes...yes… _He doesn’t break eye contact with her, his pupils blown dark and wide, as he pounds her from within. 

He climaxes by the dirty words she mutters, her dirty incoherent moaning, her _yes, please fuck me like that_ and her _is that all you’ve got, baby? Is that really as hard as you can fuck my pussy?_

He groans when he cums, shooting several spurts of his seed deep into her cunt. One, two, three, four…

As they lay together on the floor in the afterglow, as his cum drips out of her bare pussy, he spreads his seed all over her clit and teases her again with his nimble fingers, making her cum a second time...just as she likes it. 

And it’s all so overwhelming.

It is satisfying and perfect. 

It is “fuck, Felix, I think I love you,” murmured into his ear with her eyes closed. 

It is “I think I love you, too,” whispered onto the side of her face, followed by a kiss on her cheek, the tenderest thing she has ever felt in her life. "Happy birthday."

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I hope you enjoyed that, my play on one of their endings. The BL ending is obviously very satisfying for them, but their ending in the other routes is not as nourishing, and so I wrote this. Also, I'm just...so obsessed with these two and cannot believe they don't have more content and...more...fans!!! Song title and lyrics from Lana Del Rey's new song, "Fuck it I love you," after which this fic is named. 8)
> 
> Anyway,
> 
> If you want, check my Felix/Dorothea playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/37720wFW79CH9eLMOpTQU3?si=t0CrSdU0Qm6YVXZgECzouw). And THANK YOU FOR READING. We are really living in #rarepairhell


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